


Between the Bars

by Coffeebles



Category: Video Blogging RPF, Who Killed Markiplier? - Fandom, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Addiction, Alcoholism, Cocaine, Confrontation, Crying, Dark, Death, Depressing, Drugs, Gen, Hallucinations, damien pretends to be mayor, he isn't though, i'm sorry for the pain i'm about to inflict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-14 03:31:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14761790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coffeebles/pseuds/Coffeebles
Summary: When Damien was a kid, he thought he would grow up to rule the world. He does now, in a way.





	Between the Bars

**Author's Note:**

> hey sorry i haven't written anything in a long time anyways here's something really dark and depressing :-)  
> (Inspired by "Between the Bars" by Elliott Smith)

The study in the attic had died a long time ago. At one point, it might have been nice, but there was nobody still alive to tell the tale.

Pale blue paint was peeling off the walls. Splintering floorboards creaked with the slightest of movement. The small, circular window was too dirty to see out of. All that was visible was the blurry outline of green grass and a full moon. Papers coated a small desk, some of them draping onto the floor. Almost all of them had the same messy handwriting. A jar of ink had spilled across them, leaving the stain of a dark puddle. Old books with layers of dust sat upon old shelves. They had not be touched in years, and they would never be read again.

Terrible space to live; the perfect space for an addict.

It was a hot summer night. Bugs sang their songs, and a breeze swept through the trees. The sticky heat could never burn as much as the alcohol as it ran down one’s throat, though. The smell of dust was intermingled with the stench of whiskey. There were empty bottles hidden under the desk from past nights. They were beginning to form a collection.

Damien’s face scrunched up as he examined the newest bottle. It was a cheap brand that left a foul aftertaste. He kept on drinking it, though. After all, he had no way of getting a better one, as they were people in the kitchen. Even if he wanted to, he could not move. His cane had rolled across the floor and out of reach.

He huffed a sigh before taking another sip. His greasy hair was in his eyes. He did not bother to brush it away. A white collared dress shirt choked him, but he refused to change into something more comfortable. After all, a mayor always had to dress in a professional manner.

There was a knock from the trapdoor on the floor. Damien cursed under his breath. He took one more swig before calling, “Come in.”

It was exactly who he expected it to be: William. As always, William was wearing his various badges from his time served in the army. Behind his glasses were kind eyes, wrinkled with a smile. Damien didn’t smile back.

“I reckoned you’d be up here,” William said. He hoisted himself onto the attic floor, closing the trapdoor behind him. His eyes wandered the room. “Sure is a mess up here.”

“I’m the only one who comes up here,” Damien said.

“Maybe you should consider cleaning it up. It could look really nice with just some paint and a bit of effort.” William’s bright eyes met Damien’s dead ones, and that was when the smile fell off William’s face. He frowned, then made his way across the room to sit next to Damien.

“You’re seeming about as well as this attic right now,” he said.

Damien grunted. “Why do you care?”

“Why do I care?” William’s voice rose. His hands curled into fists for a moment before he forced them to relax. He was putting up a front. Damien had seen him do it before when they were out in public, and William would have to suppress his anger. He had gotten worse at it over the years.

“How is it?” William asked.

“How is what?”

“Your town.”

Damien hesitated. He always forgot about the times he let his fantasies slip off his tongue.

“It’s fine,” he said.

William nodded. “Maybe you could be the mayor of our town if you tried hard enough.”

“You know that’s not true.” Damien started down into the whiskey bottle. The amber liquid swayed back and forth.

“Why, because of your condition?” William scoffed. “There have been _presidents_ in wheelchairs, Dames. I’m sure you could handle being the mayor.”

“It’s not just my legs, William.”

William froze. His expression became grim. “Right.” He stared down at the floorboards. Damien watched as his hands returned to fists--only this time, they stayed that way.

“You need to stop doing this,” William said.

“Doing what?” Damien asked, his cheeks flushed red and his words beginning to slur.

“This!” William motioned towards Damien. “The drinking old whiskey in dirty attics; the cocaine you get off the streets.” His voice was getting louder as he spoke. “You’re destroying yourself, Damien. You get high to hallucinate and see yourself as the mayor of a town that doesn’t exist. Don’t you realize how terrible that is?”

Damien’s eyes had gone wide. He refused to look back at William, and instead focused on his cane across the room. “It’s easier that way,” he said.

“It may seem that way to you.” William shot to his feet. “Don’t you realize how much you’re hurting the rest of us? Just now, your sister was bawling her goddamn eyes out because she thinks you’re too far gone.”

There was a ball tightening in Damien’s throat. “Stop,” he choked out, his voice wavering.

“You’re killing yourself,” William continued. He was practically screaming now. “Can’t you realize how much you’re destroying your own body? You’re going to get into a drug coma and die, all because you favored your fantasies over the real world. Is that what you want? For us to find out your dead body was found in a dark alleyway?”

Tears were dripping onto Damien’s shirt. His soft sniffles and whimpers filled the space. The bottled had been long forgotten. He hugged his knees close to his chest as he sobbed.

William winced. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s only because I care. We all care.” He kneeled before Damien. “You have to wake up, Dames.”

Damien whipped a stray tear from his cheek. “I--” He looked up at William, and before he knew it, the tears were coming back stronger than ever. “I don’t want to die.”

His cries were no longer soft and quiet. They were the loud wails of a broken man. William forced his own tears back. He hesitated before inching forward and wrapping his arms around Damien. Damien buried his face into the other man’s shoulder, staining the tan fabric with salty tears. William rubbed slow circles into Damien’s back as Damien cried more than he had ever remembered crying. There was something cleansing about it, though.

Maybe he would see the sun again. 


End file.
